Wiley was waking up, in his bedroom, the same place he had woken up for the last three months. In his rented apartment on the waterfront. The new development. A village within the city. But not really. It was actually a giant dormitory, full of incurious people who rushed in and out in the dark, and slept the few hours between. He had never seen his neighbors, and as far as he knew they had never seen him. Perfect.
He got up and set his coffee machine going. He rinsed the fumes out of the Dom Perignon bottle and placed it in the recycle bin. He put his glass in the dishwasher.
He picked up his phone and dialed the rental franchise he had used before. The call was answered immediately, by a man who sounded young and efficient.
Wiley said, “Do you speak English?”
“Certainly, sir,” the young man said.
“I need to rent a panel van.”
“What size, sir?”
“Long wheelbase, high roof. I need plenty of space inside.”
“We have Mercedes-Benz or Volkswagen. The Mercedes-Benz is longer. Over four meters inside.”
Wiley did the math in his head. Four meters was thirteen feet. He needed twelve. He said, “How far off the ground is the load floor?”
“Quite normal, I think. I’m not sure exactly.”
“Does it have a roll-up rear door?”
“No, sir. It has hinged rear doors. Is that a problem?”
“I need to back it up to another truck and move stuff across. Can’t get close enough with hinged doors.”
“I’m afraid our only option with a roll-up door is in an altogether different class of vehicle. It’s a question of gross vehicle weight, technically. In Germany the heavier vehicles require a commercial license. Do you have one?”
“I’m pretty sure I got the right license for whatever you want to give me. You can count on that. Like a deck of cards.”
“Very good, sir,” the young man said. “When do you need the van?”
“Immediately,” Wiley said.
—
The phone rang again in the consulate room, and Landry passed it to Reacher. It was Bishop, in his office nearby. Who said, “There’s a U.S. Army soldier at the reception desk claiming he has orders to report to you.”
“OK,” Reacher said. “Send him up. Or should I go get him?”
“I’ll have him escorted,” Bishop said.
The escort turned out to be a woman of maybe twenty-three, maybe a recent graduate, just starting out, but already Foreign Service to the core. The soldier turned out to be an enlisted man with a Mohawk haircut. From Wiley’s air defense unit. His crewmate. The witness from the AWOL file, four months earlier. He was an E-4, but only a specialist, not a hard-striper corporal. One step up from private first class, but not yet an NCO. He was in woodland-pattern battledress uniform. He was all squared away. Maybe twenty years old. He looked like a good soldier. His name tape said Coleman.
Neagley put three chairs in a quiet corner, and they all sat down. Reacher said, “Thanks for stopping by, soldier. We appreciate it. Did they tell you what this is about?”
Coleman said, “Sir, they told me you would ask questions about Private Wiley.”
His accent was from the South. The Georgia hill country, maybe. He was perched on the edge of his chair like the sitting-down version of standing rigidly to attention.
Reacher said, “Reports from four months ago suggest Wiley was happy to be in your unit. Were those reports correct?”
Coleman said, “Yes sir, I believe they were.”
“Happy and fulfilled?”
“Yes sir, I believe he was.”
“Not victimized or oppressed in any way?”
“No sir, not to my knowledge.”
“Which makes him a very unusual AWOL. And which makes it completely impossible for you or your unit to get the blame. This is not your fault. There is no practical way to make this your fault. A hundred bureaucrats could type for a hundred years on a hundred typewriters and still not get close to making this your fault. Understand? We know Wiley took off for external reasons.”
Coleman said, “Yes sir, that was also our conclusion.”
“So relax, OK? You are not accused of anything. There are no wrong answers. There are no dumb answers, either. We need anything you can tell us. Any little impression. I don’t care how stupid it is. So don’t hold back. Get it all out. Then you can have the rest of the day in Hamburg. You can check out the clubs.”
Coleman nodded.
“How long have you known Wiley?”
“He was in the unit nearly two years.”
“Old guy, right?”
“Way older than my oldest brother.”
“Did you think that was weird?”
“A little bit.”
“Did you have a theory about why he waited so long?”
“I think he tried some other things first.”
“Did he talk about them?”
“No sir, never,” Coleman said. “He was all buttoned up. He was a keeper of secrets. We all knew he was hiding things. He was always smiling to himself and saying nothing. But he was old, so we figured it was OK. We figured he was entitled. It didn’t stop anyone liking him, either. He was a popular guy.”
“Was he a hard worker?”
Coleman started to answer, and then he stopped.
Reacher said, “What?”
“Sir, you asked for stupid impressions.”